


harbor me (from the wind, the wind, the wind)

by brinnanza



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, MAG 22: Colony, Softe (tm), Tea, anachronistic misuse of eyeball powers, gay stammering, let martin have one (1) nice thing so help me god, martin-typical pining, season one jon-typical allergy to softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:36:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: Jon’s expression is pensive, knitting a familiar little wrinkle between his eyebrows. In Martin’s more indulgent daydreams, he smooths it away with his fingertips, followed swiftly by the press of his lips, but here in reality, it just means Jon has decided the conversation is over, and any further attempts at communication will be, at best, ignored. That’s actually fine with Martin; the constant adrenaline from two weeks of terror is starting to wear off, and he can feel the crash incoming now that he’s somewhere reasonably safe.(a missing scene/post ep for MAG 22 Colony)





	harbor me (from the wind, the wind, the wind)

**Author's Note:**

> remember when the scary worm lady was the worst thing martin had to deal with? good times. gone too soon. 
> 
> anyway this is based on [this post](https://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/187677327211/furthermore-on-a-less-angsty-note-who-is-going). it's Softer than canon really warrants but I do what I want. the title is from hadestown because I continue to have Major orpheus and euridice jonmartin feelings.

Jon’s expression is pensive, knitting a familiar little wrinkle between his eyebrows. In Martin’s more indulgent daydreams, he smooths it away with his fingertips, followed swiftly by the press of his lips, but here in reality, it just means Jon has decided the conversation is over, and any further attempts at communication will be, at best, ignored. That’s actually fine with Martin; the constant adrenaline from two weeks of terror is starting to wear off, and he can feel the crash incoming now that he’s somewhere reasonably safe.

He gets up to leave, to maybe make a cup of tea and remember how to breathe again, but everything goes abruptly fuzzy. His knees wobble dangerously, vision swimming, and he has to cling onto the corner of Jon’s desk to steady himself. His head is pounding, something scalpel-sharp behind his eyes, and he swallows hard against a wave of dizzy nausea. He just has to make it out of Jon’s office, to his own desk or the sofa in the breakroom or (more likely) the hallway just outside the door. If he sits down now, he’s pretty sure he’s not getting up again, and he’s already imposed on Jon enough.

“-artin?” Jon is saying. It sounds distant, muffled, like Martin is underwater. “Martin are you -”

“Um,” Martin says, and he can barely hear himself over the rushing in his ears. There’s darkness creeping in around the edges of his vision. He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly, but that just makes everything worse, sends a sickening sense of vertigo in his stomach. He’s shaking, he realizes distantly, somehow too hot and too cold at the same time, like every flu he’s ever had all at once. “Sorry, I’m--” 

The rushing noise rises to a crescendo, and then everything goes black.

When Martin comes back to himself, he’s in a crumpled heap on the floor, and his knees are throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Each successive second somehow manages to be the worst he has ever felt in his entire life; it would just figure that Martin could survive being held hostage by worms for two weeks only to die in the Archives.

He drags his eyes open to find Jon knelt on the floor beside him, hands fidgeting in the space between like Jon had started to reach out and then thought better of it. Martin hauls himself up to a sitting position, and Jon’s hands flutter toward him like a nervous sparrow, unsure if it’s safe to land. There’s a different furrow in his brow now, something confused and a little concerned, which makes sense if you’ve just seen your coworker pass out in your office. Martin manages a weak groan. He would probably be embarrassed if weren’t so preoccupied by trying not to be sick in said office -- everything is still sort of spinning.

“Ah, okay, we should probably --” Jon’s hand flutters toward him again and then lands, a warm weight on Martin’s shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed,” he says, and Martin is nearly delirious enough to imagine something fond in his tone. 

Jon helps Martin to his feet with more strength than Martin might have expected from his slight frame. Martin tries to get his feet under him again, to support himself so Jon doesn’t have to, but his knees go wobbly and threaten to drop him. He leans on Jon, lets Jon bear his weight. He's more exhausted than he thinks he's ever been in his life, but something within him settles. 

It’s slow going, one labored step at a time. Martin’s head aches and he can’t stop shaking, but Jon’s arm is tight around him, grounding him. There are no worms here, no constant knocking, no desperate terror. Just Jon, pressed alongside him; Jon, who believed him, who told him to _stay_. And Martin’s not quite out of it enough to think that means anything, but he’s not sure it means nothing either.

After a small eternity of shambling steps and motion sickness, they reach document storage. “Nearly there,” Jon murmurs, nudging the door open with his foot. His breath is warm against Martin’s ear, stirring a curl of hair. “Few more steps, come on.”

There’s a cot tucked into the corner between banker boxes of old files; Martin collapses onto it, a soft groan escaping him as his head hits the pillow. It feels so good to be lying down that he’s almost dizzy with it, like he can feel the spin of the Earth beneath him. He just floats there for a moment, in the hazy space between sleeping and waking. 

There are no worms here.

Martin wrenches his eyes open to give Jon a bleary smile. It’s probably the sheer exhaustion that has him convinced Jon smiles back, a fond twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Go to sleep, Martin,” Jon says, and Martin’s eyes slip closed once again. The gentle brush of fingers against his forehead must too be a product of his over-tired mind, and sleep swiftly pulls him under.

Martin wakes gently, consciousness returning like the gradual rise of the sun. For a moment, he can almost believe the last two weeks were some horrible nightmare, the product of too many late nights spent researching monsters. But no - Martin opens his eyes to the darkened document storage room, and reality asserts itself with a sharp jolt of adrenaline in his stomach, phantom bodies wriggling at his ankles.

_There are no worms here_, Martin reminds himself sternly, sitting up. He still shakes the cot’s thin sheet out to check, runs his hands over his legs. It’s nearly a habit by now anyway, and the familiar ritual soothes the rabbit-fast beat of his heart.

He’s not sure how much time has passed, but it must be several hours at least - the yellow after-hours lights are visible through the room’s grimy windows. He rubs the heel of his hand over one eye, yawning. His stomach is rumbling, and his mouth has that dry, cottony feeling that comes with sleeping at odd hours in unfamiliar places. If it’s still night rather than morning, there might be a takeaway place open, but at the very least, Martin is desperate for a cup of tea, something hot and strong and sweet to chase away the last of the shadows. 

Metaphorically, anyway. The Archives are all shadows at night.

He swings his legs over the side of the cot, and his gaze lands on the overturned box apparently serving as bedside table. There’s a mug set atop it, steam curling in the wan light that filters in from the hall. Martin reaches for it, and it’s still hot. It’s tea, Martin discovers once he takes a sip, and freshly made - not how he usually takes it, but exactly as he’d been craving. It’s the way Jon usually takes his tea. Martin had laughed about it once, how it must mean Martin’s anxious and stressed out is Jon’s baseline. Martin hadn’t thought you could get used to that kind of constant panic, but, well, apparently you can get used to anything.

Martin heads for the kitchen, where he knows they keep a stash of takeaway menus. He passes Jon’s office on the way, and the door is ajar, light spilling into the darkened corridor. Martin has no idea what time it is, but it is almost certainly long past when Jon should have left for the night. God, he hopes Jon isn’t trying to sleep at his _desk_, considering Martin had been occupying the cot. That’ll be terrible for his back, which will make him ornier than usual tomorrow. 

There’s a little twinge of guilt in Martin’s stomach at that. He hadn’t been in much state to argue earlier, but if Jon won’t go home at a reasonable hour, Martin doesn’t want to get in the way of him getting a semi-decent night’s sleep at least. The thought of Martin returning to his own flat, blank screens and tinned peaches and the constant _knocking..._ Martin suppresses a shudder and sips at his tea. He’s sure he and Jon can work something out.

He raps lightly at Jon’s door and then pushes it open. Jon’s sitting at his desk, leafing through statements. There are dark bags under his eyes and his hair is sticking up in several places, but he doesn’t look like he’s in danger of keeling over. No more than usual, anyway - Martin’s never met someone so disinclined to take care of themselves.

“Oh, Martin, you’re up,” Jon says, looking up at him. That confused little furrow is back in his brow, like he’s concerned but not quite sure what to do with it. “Good, that’s - Good.”

“Yeah, um, thanks,” Martin says. His cheeks go a bit warm under Jon’s attention, and he ducks behind his mug. “For. Yeah. And sorry for, you know, barging in on you and then-” He makes a vague gesture toward the floor with one hand. “But thank you.”

“Ah, no, there’s no need to apologize,” Jon says. He runs an awkward hand through his hair, leaving it even more rumpled. It’s a little bit charming, if Martin’s honest - he so rarely sees Jon directing an expression at him that isn’t a scowl. “Or thank me. I couldn’t exactly leave you on the floor.”

Martin’s not sure his unconscious body would actually impede Jon’s laser focus actually, but he just smiles. “Still. And thank you for-” He gestures with the mug of tea. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“Oh, no, I was just - I had some more work to do anyway. Looking for more information on - Well.” Jon shrugs, a little sheepish. “Figured I might as well stick around to get it done, and if you - well, someone would be here, anyway.”

“Right,” Martin says. “Of course. I’ll just-” He gestures back at the door, and Jon nods, returning to the pile of statements.

Martin hasn’t gotten more than a step out of the doorway when Jon says, “Actually, Martin - Wait. I -” Martin turns, and Jon is standing now, a dark flush high on his cheeks. “I wanted to say I’m - I’m sorry.”

“For what?” No one had known Martin wasn’t just off sick, and it had been Martin’s own stupid fault going back to the Vittary house at night.

“For not following up when you didn’t answer my calls. For… for not noticing, I guess.”

Martin just shrugs, the tips of his ears going hot now. This is by far the kindest Jon has ever been to him. And he knows it’s only because Jon feels guilty Martin was trapped for two weeks, but he can’t help feeling a little pleased that he gets to see this side of Jon, something softer that lurks beneath his prickly exterior. “She had my phone. She gave you a legitimate-sounding reason. I don’t blame you for that.”

“Also for making you think you had to risk yourself for the Institute,” Jon says, words spilling out in a rush. “For… for me.” There’s a pinched, uncomfortable look on his face, and Martin finds it almost endearing. Jon isn’t the sort to apologize unless he’s made to, and even then, it usually only just brushes alongside sincerity.

“Oh, no, I mean, it is my job,” Martin says, because it is. “I sort of… owe it? To the people who give statements? I know you think they’re making it up, or lying, or delusional, but…” Martin drops his gaze to the floor, wrapping both hands around his mug. “I just want to help, you know?”

Martin half-expects Jon to scoff, to remind him derisively that the purpose of the Magnus Institute isn’t to _help_, it’s to _research_, and anything else is a waste of time. But Jon just lets out a long, slow breath, and when Martin looks up again, there is something complicated and unreadable in his expression. “Indeed,” he says, very softly.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work,” Martin says, turning toward the door. “Don’t stay too late, alright?”

Jon clears his throat, and then he’s wearing his more familiar pinched scowl. “Yes, alright, thank you,” he says dismissively, and snatches up the stack of papers on his desk. “Goodnight, Martin.”

Martin smiles, and the mug in his hands is warm. “Goodnight, Jon.”


End file.
